


Angel from Hell

by Seeroftodayandtomorrow



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Enemies to Lovers, Finn's death is a plot point, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-25 20:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17731925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeroftodayandtomorrow/pseuds/Seeroftodayandtomorrow
Summary: After a prompt from  iambatman-me: In a Dystopian society, Kurt has learned to be ruthless. By sheer determination, he has risen to the top and is finally one step from where he always wanted to be. But his outlook on  things changes when he is assigned the task of questioning Blaine Anderson, a leader of the rebellion - by any means necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

The air seems to grow thicker as Kurt descends the stairs. He's probably imagining it; it shouldn't be noticeable yet. Level four isn't too bad: there's a little fresh air and even some stubborn rays of sunlight fighting through the mass of buildings, stairways and platforms above. Houses are small, but there's some maintenance done here and there, and you don't fear falling through the stairs as you walk them.

He'll have to go down one more level, though. Breathing is noticeably harder here, and it's a lot darker. The stairs are narrow and steep, and crowded, though people who see his uniform give him as wide a berth as they can. He's carrying a basket with medicine and food and a bottle of expensive wine. Though folk can't see the envelope full of money in the bottom of the basket, they give it covetous looks, but he isn't approached.

He walks through the familiar alleys to his dad's house. Nothing ever really changes here. Repairs are limited to what people can do themselves, with what little materials they can afford to buy or barter for. It's dark, it stinks. He can see now, like he has never seen when he still lived here, how sickly people look, how thin they are. But strong. He knows that. Who grows up here is strong. They have to be, or they don't survive.

His dad's little house is where it has always been. A patch of trampled earth makes up the back yard. Nothing grows here, but it provides a place for the laundry that never gets really clean to dry and for a few scrawny chickens to scratch. The door is maybe a little more askew than it was at his last visit. Since Finn's death, things like that don't get done anymore.

Inside, his dad is sitting at the rickety old, but scrupulously clean kitchen table like he always does, repairing a harness that probably belongs to one of the old mine ponies they keep that live in perpetual darkness down in level six. He's still doing something; that is good. It's not about the money. Kurt keeps them fed and clothed and supplied with the coal they need since electricity is only available on the upper levels. He would do more if they let him, but they don't. But his father has never been an idle man. For him to sit with nothing to do would mean he is close to death.

“Hello, son,” he says. As always now, there's an undertone of disapproval in his voice, but Kurt ignores it. His dad might dislike the things Kurt had to do to save his life, but Kurt will never regret them.

“Hi dad,” he says, forgetting the dignity of his uniform for a moment and becoming the boy he always is under his father's roof. He puts the kettle on for tea and looks around. “Where's Carole?”

He likes his father's wife, even though he suspects she finds a reason to be out of the house when he visits.

“Out to find food,” Burt answers. His voice is raspy like everyone's here, from the coal dust that settles in the lungs. But has it more of a rasp to it than before? Kurt so wishes they'd come and live with him up on third, but they keep refusing.

“But I brought food,” Kurt says, taking tea from the supply he brought with him instead from what is there.

“Yes, but she didn't know that, did she.”

Kurt always brings food when he visits, and he visits every week at the same time, on his free day. But he says nothing. There is tension here, he knows, and to some part, he understands why. He makes the tea and sits down across his father. They sip in silence from chipped mugs. The tea is thin, thinner than Kurt likes it, but he knows they 'd feel he's wasting it if he used more.

“Do you want me to try and fix the door?” he asks. This was his home too, once, after all.

But his dad shakes his head. “It'll keep for a few days until I'll get around to doing it. No sense in you getting your hands dirty.”

“Dad!” Kurt protests. He doesn't want his dad to see him like that, like someone from above with soft hands who hasn't worked a day in his life. Kurt has worked, he has done everything people do below to somehow get food in their bellies. He can still do it.

“Kurt.” His dad is serious, and sad. There is finality in his voice when he says, “You don't belong here anymore. Don't think I'm not grateful for what you've done for us, and are still doing. God knows I wish you hadn't, but I am grateful. But you can't come back here and act as if you're still one of us.”

Kurt sits very still. Burt is right, of course. Kurt has done everything he could to get out of Hell. And he has done it, he has succeeded in what everyone wants but most fail at. And still he comes back down here every week, bears the resentful stares and the whispers.

Kurt rises. Methodically, he unpacks his basket, puts the food and the wine and the medicine on the table and next to it, the money.

“I'll be back next week,” he says, for he will be. He'll be back every week. He doesn't belong here anymore, but he is still needed.

Ignoring the stares and the whispers, he slowly walks back upstairs towards his nice little apartment, towards clean air and light that might not be sunlight but is still better than gas lamps and torches.

* * *

 

Burt silently and methodically sorts the largesse into what to keep and what to give away. Most, he gives away. He really doesn't need the medicine anymore; he's as well as he's ever going to be again. But he doesn't tell Kurt. He's sorry to let him worry, but there are others who need the medicine, and Kurt won't bring any more if he doesn't think it's for Burt.

Burt's heart won't heal from medicine, anyway. It started breaking when he first fell ill and Kurt started to do...things to get him the drugs he needed to survive. It hasn't stopped since. Whenever he sees Kurt and wonders how his little boy grew into this cynical, uniformed man who seems ready to do almost anything to further his own advancement, it cracks a little more. And it isn't helping that he's keeping secrets from him, that he's giving away the things Kurt brings him and uses what little he talks about his work to help the rebellion.

It's breaking his heart to work against his son. But what is he to do when his son is working for the enemy?

Kurt thinks Burt has an unreasonable loyalty towards level five. Burt knows Kurt is mistaken: it's not the level, but the people. Five is his home; Hell is his home. But the loyalty he feels is towards the people he lives with, the ones he has suffered and survived next to for all these years.

Kurt thinks that everyone who lives down in Hell would do his utmost to get out. And while that is certainly true for some, most want to stay and better their lot and that of their neighbors without moving up and becoming everything they detest.

Down here, they help each other. They have to.

* * *

 

Every time Blaine breathes, the rough fabric of the bag over his head catches on his nose. It makes his face itch, and he feels like he has to sneeze and cough with every second breath.

He focuses on that, because it's better than the alternative.

He got caught. It's not surprising, really; every mission is a risk to his life and freedom. Still, with so many successful missions, it's been easy to become...overconfident. Careless, maybe. And that's what he gets from that.

He knows where they're taking him. They've been walking upstairs and upstairs for some time now. There's only one place they can take him.

The bag over his head is, most likely, so people won't know who the prisoner is. Or so they can't see the state his face is in, the bruises on his cheek bones and the blood on his nose and the cut on his lip.

That wouldn't fit with the image they try to maintain.

He tries to find hope. He has become somewhat of a face for the rebellion of late, that is true; but it is so much bigger than him. The Warblers will continue with everything they have planned, and the number of people who support their cause is constantly growing. They will prevail without him.

He doesn't have any illusions they will try to rescue him. They might, if they believe his contribution to their cause is worth the risk. If his experience and his dedication is enough to risk captivity or death should they be discovered while trying to free him.

He stumbles as a hand pushing against his back forces him to walk faster. It also catches him so he doesn't fall, and for a moment, Blaine allows himself to be thankful. Then the hand pushes him again, and he tries to match the brisk pace of his captors.

They caught him down in six. By his counting, they must be up in three now. He is panting, and his legs hurt from climbing all the stairs, but he knows they'll march him all the way to level one. He hopes they'll throw him in a cell and forget about him, at least for a while. But he doubts it. They'll want to question him, find out who the other Warblers are, what they're planning, where they're based. He knows they won't be hesitant in what methods to use in order to make him talk. And he hopes - he desperately hopes - he will be able to withstand them. He hopes he won't betray his friends.

He is terribly afraid.

* * *

 

 Kurt stands to attention, his uniform carefully pressed and freed of any traces of coal dust. What he does isn't exactly forbidden, but certainly frowned upon, and while he makes no secret of having family in the lower city, it would not do to remind his superiors of the fact.

“Mr Hummel. Please sit down.” The intimidating woman behind the desk gestures at the small chair before it. As always, Kurt is determined to not let himself be intimidated, but she has the power over his rise and fall in the office, so it's hard.

“We have had....an unexpected bit of success yesterday,” the woman continues, allowing a rare smile to appear briefly on her face. “Our agents were able to capture Blaine Anderson, who, as you surely know, is assumed to be one of the leaders of the notorious underground rebellion group, the Warblers.”

Anderson. He knows that name. Not Blaine, no, but the family. Every blow to them is welcome to him. Although, as he thinks about it, it is a little curious that a son of that family should be a leader of the rebellion.

“That is very fortunate,” he agrees.

“All due to the excellent performance of our agents, of course.” She gives him a stern look, and he nods quickly.

“For you also, this is a chance. It might earn you a promotion and a raise big enough to move you up to two. You will be given the task to question the man and try to get as much information out of him as possible. You are to have absolutely free reign in this, and are permitted to employ any means you deem necessary, short of actually killing him. We expect an equally excellent performance from you. Do you understand?”

Kurt swallows. Suddenly, the room seems colder.

“I understand.”


	2. Chapter 2

Blaine turns on the bed. It's comfortably soft, but has neither blanket nor pillow. He isn't cold. His room—his cell—is small and bare, but clean and warm, and very, very white. There's nothing but his own naked body to interrupt the whiteness, that, after the darkness of the last few years, is blinding to him. They've taken his clothes and not given him new ones. He has no blanket and, although the small en suite bathroom has an actual shower, there are no towels. He has nothing to hide his nakedness from the very obvious camera on one of the white walls.

Be careful what you wish for.

He is certain they're watching him, but in everything else, they seem to have, indeed, forgotten him. For days, a week perhaps. It's hard to keep track of time when every minute is like the one before. He gets three meals a day, and they're better than anything he has eaten for a long, long time. He is clean, and he can breathe easily, and he has light in abundance. More light, in fact, than he would want. Darkness would grant him some privacy every now and then.

A lot of time he spends sleeping. When he can't sleep anymore, he showers. The steam from the shower hides him a little from the bathroom camera, and hot water is a luxury he has missed. To dry, he has to stand in the middle of the little room, and at the press of a button, hot air is blown at him.

The time he doesn't spend showering or eating, he sits on the bed in the corner, knees drawn up, face hidden in his arms.

In his head, he is singing.

His friend Rachel, who sings in a bar in Four, often changes the lyrics to popular songs that she sings. The changes are seemingly harmless, so government officials haven't found anything suspicious about them. But if you know what they mean, these lyrics become a rallying cry for the rebels. They tell you to believe in your cause, your friends, and yourself. They tell you not to lose courage even in difficult situations.

They help, surprisingly much.

By singing these songs in his head, he is not here in this white cell, he is in a dingy little bar in Four that has somehow become a kind of meeting point for the rebels. There is coal dust everywhere, and dim, smoky light from gas lamps. There is bad ale and coarse food, and singing and laughter. His friends are there, and a part of him hopes that they are sitting there right now, plotting how to rescue him.

He shouldn't, he knows. But he can't help it, and he needs these thoughts, so much.

Maybe, by singing these songs in his head, he stays sane, or at least saner than he otherwise would. He is, by all accounts, relatively calm and collected when, at long last, a man enters the room.

* * *

 

Kurt has been watching the prisoner for a few days now.

At first, it's hard. He watches with his nails pressed into his palms and his teeth clenched. The prisoner's handsome face is too similar to his father's cold, emotionless features that tend to turn into a disdainful sneer in Kurt's memory. It invokes memories that are almost too painful to be borne, of himself, in rags filthy with coal dust, panting from running up a lot of stairs, begging to the point of tears only to be rejected.

But he takes the pain and turns it into anger. The prisoner is, after all, a member of that family, just as Kurt is still a member of his family, no matter what his dad might say. That doesn't just go away just because he looks pale and thin as everyone who has spent enough time below. No matter how much he looks like someone from five, he is still a member of that family that lives in a mansion up in one, that has never even set a foot in anywhere below three, and that has nothing but disdain and badly concealed disgust for anyone from there they might have the misfortune to encounter.

He is a member of that family that Kurt hates so much, and he is completely in Kurt's power.

The bright light isn't kind to the man. Kurt remembers the ache in his eyes in the first few weeks spent anywhere above four; the blinking and easy tears will last for a while, then. Good. Tears make a person feel vulnerable, even if they are only from the light.

The light also makes visible the rather sad state of the prisoner's body. Pale, so very pale, and thin, though muscled. He looks like someone whose life is made up of no light, little food, and hard work. He looks like anyone in five. Kurt can't help but be a little impressed. He had assumed that rebellion was a toy for the rich people's son, something to pass the time with until it got too hard and he went back to his parents, groveling, perhaps, but soon to be enjoying the luxuries of their lifestyle again.

But this man, this Blaine, seems to have had his share of suffering and pain, enough to have most people flee back with their tail between their legs.

But Blaine has suffered, and fought, and stayed, only to fail like this, sitting in a cell like all the others before him.

Kurt could almost feel sorry for him.

Still, there's the question on what to do with him. He has a job to do, and neither pity nor, and he is loathe to admit it, the fact that he can't help but notice how attractive the man is even in his current dejected state will help him do it.

Kurt must find out what he can from the prisoner, about the Warblers, about their plans, about who in the common populace might be sympathetic towards their cause. He has no delusions towards what his superiors will do if he fails. Best scenario, he gets demoted and made to fetch and carry again, with a very faint and far away chance of maybe rising again if he is very, very good and successful and does all the things he had to do in the beginning. Worst scenario...he will not think about that.

Failure is simply not an option.

So how to proceed? He has free hand. He knows they expect him to resort to torture if necessary, but he doesn't like the thought. He isn't queasy, and he also doesn't have scruples about hurting one of the Warblers who is an Anderson on top of that. But he lacks brute strength and the knowledge to wield instruments effectively. He could get someone else to do it, but this is his mission and he wants to do it alone if he can.

Taking away comforts won't work either. The man was taken down at six, and from the looks of him, he is obviously used to hard floors for his bed and very little food.

There is one other way he can use. If it doesn't work within an appropriate amount of time, he can always go back to torture. But for now, he is looking forward to this.

He smiles as he turns off the cameras and goes towards the man's cell.

* * *

 

Blaine sits up when the man enters, his hands carefully folded above his crotch. It's ridiculous; this man has probably seen all there is to see, but he will take any protection he can get. Even though the man doesn't look like he is going to hurt him. He is wearing uniform, but no weapon, and while he is certainly in good physical condition, he is no giant. And he is smiling, a kind, polite smile, not a sneer.

“Good morning,” he says. At the man's voice, Blaine flinches. He looks at him with wide eyes. He hadn't recognized him from his looks, because when he had last seen him, he had been hardly more than a boy, and filthy and half-starved.

But the voice...he will always recognize the voice.

And he can't believe what has become of that desperate boy from years ago. How could that have become of him?

He realizes he has been silent too long. He should appear to be desperate for human contact, though scared. Not full of hate for a man who has surely never been more than an illusion.

With an effort, he looks up to meet the man's eyes. “Good morning,” he says, then quickly looks down again lest he somehow see what is in his soul. “Is it morning?” he asks.

It's hard to tell; the lights never go out, not even at night, and he has taken to sleeping whenever he can instead at some fixed point in the day. It is not so different, really. Below, it is always dark even during the day; here, it is bright even during the night. Sleeping is harder here, but it's not as much of a change as they might think.

The man's smile grows wider. “Yes, it is morning. I trust you have had your breakfast?”

Blaine nods. He has had a meal; the meals are varied but not so you could tell the time of day from them. Today it had been soup, bread, and some fruit; sometimes it's porridge, or a little bit of meat. Water and tea for every meal, and he still can't fathom that there is so much to eat here for a mere prisoner.

“Would you like something else?” the man asks, still smiling. “Some coffee, perhaps?”

Blaine can't even tell how long it is since he has had coffee. Back when he still lived with his parents, probably; it's hard to tell. But coffee will keep him from sleeping, and since there isn't much else to do, he declines. He is also hesitant to accept anything from this man. He had been able to betray everyone he had grown up with; what would he do to a prisoner?

He still doesn't look hostile, though. Blaine is confused: he has expected someone to drag him out of here, tie him to a chair somewhere and do everything they can to get him to betray his friends. Not this...friendly, attentive man who asks him if he wants coffee.

He has to be wary. The man clearly is deceptive; Blaine can't forget what he knows of him. He had once lived below, had been one of the very people he now helps to oppress. Who knows what he had been willing to do to get where he is now. Blaine can't let himself be talked into trusting him, no matter how he acts.

“My name is Kurt Hummel,” the man says, still standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the little room. “I am the one who is going to take care of you.”

Kurt. Blaine tries to put the name to the face. He doesn't look like a Kurt. Or yes, he does, but he shouldn't. He should be called something else. Like Loki. Or Judas. Or William, like the man who had devised the system of the platforms and the steps you had to take to rise up.

“You mean, you are the one who is going to question me,” he says. He might as well show he is not one to be deceived by an offer of coffee.

“In due time.” Kurt shrugs, still smiling. “But first, we should make you a little more comfortable.” He makes a show of looking around in the cell, that is really too small to justify any looking around. “If we are to get to know each other, I will need somewhere to sit. And—I believe you could do with some clothes, right?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finn's death is thematized in this chapter

“Why 'Warblers'? Kurt asks.

He is sitting cross-legged on a low chair. He's not in uniform today, but is wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt, very casual and not unlike the clothes he has given Blaine.

They look better on him, though. Blaine tries very hard not to notice how good-looking his gaoler is. And when he inevitably fails, he tells himself that it doesn't matter. Neither does his kindness; the fact that he has given him clothes and a little table and chair that are brown, not white, and even a few books and pen and paper.

“Excuse me?” Blaine blinks. This is not a question he has expected—though he should get used to nothing being like he expected.

“Why do you call yourselves the “Warblers”? Kurt repeats. “I've always asked myself that question.”

Blaine thinks for a while. There is no harm in answering that question, he decides eventually, except embarrassing himself: the name had been chosen long ago, and it seems ridiculous and arrogant now. Especially now.

But it's probably a good idea to show himself at least a little cooperative, even if he won't be later.

“”You know how they used to take birds into the mines?” he starts hesitantly. “So they'd die if there was any gas and warn the miners? That would be us, we thought. Save the lives of the people that would otherwise die. In a broader sense, of course; there's more that we can do. Fight for them. Make their lives better in any way we can. Protect them. Die for them, if necessary.”

* * *

 

 Kurt has a hard time not smiling at that. The Warblers are notorious, even feared among the officials on the upper levels. They haven't killed anyone yet, but they have done real harm nevertheless. It is almost endearing to discover that behind all this, they are wide-eyed, naïve little children with lofty ideals.

He hadn't even been interested in the answer, really. It had just been a random question, something to get Blaine—the prisoner—used to answering questions. Used to him. To Kurt being the one to talk to, the one to receive things from, the one to focus on. To eventually—hopefully—get him used to wanting to please Kurt.

“But...,” he says, mostly to not laugh. “That's very heroic of you, but...the people are not actually dying. I mean, people are always dying, but there's nothing you can do about that. That's just life.”

Blaine looks at him with an expression that is hard to interpret. “You of all people should know that's not true,” he says, and then abruptly shuts his mouth like this isn't something he meant to say.

Kurt also thinks he shouldn't have said that. He doesn't know what prompted this remark, and it confuses him. It makes him feel out of control, and he doesn't like it. He is the one supposed to be in control here, after all. He is the goaler, Blaine is the prisoner.

Firmly reminding himself of that, he asks, “What do you mean by that?”

Blaine shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. He has said too much, then; it makes Kurt feel better.

“I knew you before,” Blaine finally says. Kurt's breath hitches; this is not good. “I saw you only once, but I know that your family lives down in Five, and that your brother died in circumstances that could have been prevented, and so I don't get why you say things like this.”

Rage rises in Kurt, ice cold and grim. With difficulty, he pushes it back. “How do you know that?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Blaine's answer is slow and methodical, said without emotion and without looking at Kurt. “You came up to One, once. You were hardly more than a boy, and so was I. I saw you meet with my father. I listened at the door. You asked for medicine. He declined. You begged, pleaded, but he still denied you. Finally, you left. I went to storage and stole the medicine. But it took me longer than I thought, and it also took longer than I thought to get below and find you. When I finally did, it was too late. I saw them carry your brother's body out.“

Silently, Kurt rises and leaves the cell.

 

This is it. It's over. He'll have to have Blaine assigned to someone else. Blaine knows him, knows who he used to be...there is no way he can respect him now the way he needs to respect him for Kurt to achieve his goal. It makes everything too personal, as well. He can't work with Blaine knowing he knows what he knows. He can hardly work with himself knowing how he used to be. How he despises that dirty, snot-nosed little boy he used to be, coming to beg from some up-snob and letting himself be told no!

But Blaine...Blaine didn't accept that no. Even though he grew up there, he did what Kurt should have done and took what he wanted, defying his own father. He did that for a boy he didn't even know.

Doesn't Kurt owe him for that? Would it be the right thing to just let him go and face whatever repercussions for the sake of what he tried to do for his family?

Maybe it would. Maybe he would do it, if he and Blaine were the only people involved. But there's his family, whom he couldn't keep supporting if he didn't have his job. There's everything he worked so hard for that he won't throw away just to feel decent again. And there's the fact that Blaine is a member of a dangerous rebel group, and he has been given the task to take care of him.

He can't let personal feelings come between him and this task. How will it look if he turns it away at the first sign of difficulty?

And more: this is his chance. To prove himself, to finally move up to two where he will respected by most, if not everyone, and to finally get his dad and Carole to move in with him. He can't go down to Five anymore if he lives up in Two; they must see that.

He has to get Blaine to confess. They need to know all they can about the Warblers, and he needs to be the one to find out.

* * *

 

 It takes two days for Kurt to come back. Since Kurt is the one who brings his meals, it means no food for two days. But Blaine has gone without for longer, though he is a little dismayed how soon his stomach has become accustomed to regular meals again.

But he has as much water as he wants in the bathroom, so he's good for now. He also isn't particularly worried; he has information they want, they won't just let him rot here.

What upsets him is that he misses Kurt. He tells himself that it's just that he misses having someone to talk too, but down inside, he knows it's not true.

As much as the man infuriates him, as much as he hates everything he stands for and everything he must have done to get where he is now—he can't deny he likes him.

Kurt has a wry sense of humor and, despite everything, is not without compassion. He is intelligent and well-spoken, and—Blaine can't even think it. But what he has done, the way he has made his way to the upper levels, shows that there is a lot of strength and determination in him. In addition to the ruthlessness and the willingness to trample over anything and everything in order to achieve his goal.

But they had talked, and Kurt has allowed him tiny glimpses of a man who is funny and kind and curious, and while Blaine has never forgotten he is a prisoner and has never lost the sense of dread about what might come, what Kurt might do to get the information he needs—he has almost had fun.

When, finally, Kurt comes back, in uniform and with a lot more distance than before, Blaine is so glad to see him he hates him for it.

* * *

 

There's nothing on the table in front of them. In times of want, food is not offered as a courtesy. It doesn't mean that conversations are less friendly. Or easier.

Burt crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You're putting me in a difficult position, boys,” he says.

“We know, sir,” Wes says. “You have, of course, every right to refuse, but frankly, we see no other way.”

Carole's hand on his arms presses so hard it hurts. She is scared, and he can't blame her. He is scared too. But he knows she will support him in whatever he does. Whatever that will be.

“I'll need some time to think about it,” he tells the leaders of the Warblers sitting at his kitchen table.

“Of course,” Wes says and rises. The others follow his example. “We understand this is a difficult decision. We will try to find another solution, as well."

He turns to leave, then stops. “Just—please hurry. Who knows what he—what they do to him.”

 

“What will you do?” Carole asks softly when they are alone again.

“I have no idea. What they ask...to act against Kurt...”

“You acted against Kurt before,” she points out.

He shakes his head. “Not in this way. Not so...directly.”

He sighs. In some way, he knows what he will do. Carole knows it too; she loves Kurt just as much as him, in the same conflicted way. Although she tries to avoid him wherever she can, she will never stop loving him for what he tried to do for Finn.

But no matter how much they love him, the truth is that he has turned into someone they can't recognize. They don't know him, and if they're honest, they don't particularly care to now. They have to do what they know is right.

And they will also never forget what Blaine has tried to do for Finn.

Somehow, the Warblers have found out that Kurt is the one who holds Blaine; who does who knows what to him to get the information they want.

Burt would like to think that Kurt would not be cruel, would not resort to....the things they have heard often happen to prisoners, especially political prisoners. He would like to think that he raised him to be kind and compassionate, to use violence only as a very last resort.

But apparently, he hasn't. Kurt is none of those things, not anymore, and Burt can't at all be sure of what he will or won't do.

Just as he can't be sure how he will react when the Warblers present his father, in figurative chains, to be traded for the most important prisoner they have had in years.

Because this is what they ask of him: to let himself be taken hostage by these kids he regards nearly as his own, in hopes that Kurt will trade him for Blaine.

And because he loves the Warblers and everything they do for the people in Hell, because he loves Blaine, and also because he loves Kurt, he will agree.

He only hopes there is a small part left of the son he used to know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurt talks about Finn's death

“Are we going to talk about it?” Blaine asks, increasingly annoyed.

As predicted, Kurt rises and leaves.

He had reduced his visits, one per day, considerably shorter than before. He brings Blaine's food, enough for two full meals, and then he sits down on the edge of a chair, very businesslike and unfamiliar in his uniform that he's returned to wearing. He asks one question or two, about the things Blaine suspects they really want to know, about what the Warblers are planning or who the key members are, half-heartedly and, so it seems, without really expecting an answer. Blaine remains silent.

He wishes he could answer. He longs to talk, longs for the conversations they used to have before everything went wrong. Although Blaine still hasn't quite understood what went wrong. He has seen Kurt once before—what about that has made Kurt react the way he had?

Still, he is glad that Kurt has come back—even this strange, silent version of Kurt. He doesn't trust Kurt, can't assess him at all, but he's reasonably sure he won't suddenly start to torture him. If he had assigned someone else—there's no way to know.

But he wants the old Kurt back. The one he had felt could have been a friend under different circumstances. He doesn't know how to get him back.

So he is silent, only, when he feels Kurt's visit is about to be over, he asks the one question. For a week, now, Kurt has silently risen and left, but Blaine still asks. He has to. They're at a stalemate, Kurt has to feel it too: they don't move, nothing is changed by Kurt's questions, nor by Blaine's, as both of them fail to answer. Something has to change. Blaine doesn't know if there are any conditions Kurt's superiors have set on his free hand regarding Blaine—a time limit, perhaps. A period of time in which Kurt must extract the kind of information they want, and then someone else will take over.

Blaine is scared, and that's an understatement. He's terrified. He could throw up just at the thought. The reason for that is that, against all reason, he has still hope. He shouldn't. But maybe the Warblers will rescue him. They are his friends as well as comrades, and not without sentimentality. Maybe they will. Even though that would be crazy, and reckless, and against all of their principles. But for the slight chance that they do, he has to hold out. And even if they never come, he can't betray them. He can hold his silence with Kurt, but with someone else...if they torture him...he's scared of that, and so scared of not being able to keep still.

But once again, Kurt is gone, and Blaine knows he will come back tomorrow, and they'll repeat everything.

* * *

 

 “Get a grip on yourself!” Kurt orders himself sternly. He can't go on like this. He knows it, and he suspects Blaine knows it too. His superiors have not set a certain time in which he has to accomplish his task, but they are bound to become impatient at some point, and Kurt hasn't got any results to show them when the time comes.

He shakes his head, tries to think clearly. His goal, from the beginning, has been to somehow gain Blaine's trust, at least enough of it that he would believe his best course would be to answer any questions set before him. May not be one way to achieve that to show a little bit of trust himself? Not really, of course. He suspects that whatever he betrays of himself will be used against him as soon as Blaine gets free. His job, then, is to see to it that that never happens.

His heart aches a little at that thought. He hasn't really allowed himself to think about what will happen to Blaine in the long run. And if he's honest to himself, it's unlikely that Government is going to let him occupy the cell and pay for his board for a long time after they don't need him anymore. Kurt would like to think they'll exchange him back to his family for money or services, but he has to admit it's more likely he will quietly disappear.

Which means they'll kill him. Blaine will die. His smile, his laugh, his courage and tenacity, gone forever. His beautiful eyes, closed, never to open again. His body, broken and dead, buried in some anonymous hole down in Six, or burned.

He tries to tell himself it doesn't matter, though there are tears burning behind his eyes. But he can't consider this, can't consider Blaine. His world is himself, his dad, and Carole. Nobody else matters. It's hard enough to take care of three people.

His hands close to fists as he tries to think about what he has to do. And then he decides not to think about it anymore. It's premature anyway; whatever might happen, it's a long way away.

For now, what he has to do is get over himself. And that should be easy enough; he's had to do it a lot whenever guilt or conscience would get in the way of necessity.

He takes a deep breath and goes back into Blaine's cell.

Blaine is sitting in his accustomed way, on the bed, hugging his knees, eyes closed.

“Yes. We're going to talk about it,” Kurt says, and watches Blaine jump. It is petty, but still he enjoys it. Unsettling Blaine can only make his job easier.

He sits down, but then he doesn't know where to start. Weirdly, whenever he wants to start talking about Finn, there's a lump in his throat that only seems to get bigger.

So he doesn't says anything, just sits there, and feels like he should leave again, but doesn't. If he wants to be the only one Blaine feels he can depend on, he has to be dependable. He has been much too volatile up to now.

He feels volatile now, too; as if he is going to explode any minute from the pressure inside him.

Then, thankfully, before he either runs out of the room, screams, or starts sobbing, Blaine begins to talk.

“After your brother had died, I—I never went up again, you know? I knew I couldn't face my father again, nor live the way I used to when I knew how you lived, how people in Hell lived. If I had known, I'd have planned better: taken not just the medicine for your brother, but more, as much as I could carry, for those that needed it. I'd have taken money, food, clothes. But as it was, I came down here with nothing but the clothes on my back and what money I had in my pocket. People were suspicious at first, because it was very obvious I came from Up, but when they remembered I wanted to help Finn, they were nice. They helped me find a place to live, told me whom to talk to, and so on.”

"Yes.” Kurt nods. He can't quite hide the bitterness in his voice when he adds, “They're quite good at being nice when there's something in for them. But as soon as they see a way for themselves to go up, they cast you aside.”

That's an old hurt; he's surprised he even remembers it. It's ironic, too: he has done plenty of the same since. But it is easier than what he came to talk about, and there is sympathy in Blaine's glance; Kurt knows he will ask. He decides to answer. It doesn't really touch him any more, after all, and this is all to keep the sympathy. To make Blaine like him, trust him, if possible.

“There was a girl,” he says, meeting Blaine's eyes. “We were friends almost since we were born. We did everything together, and swore we'd always be there for each other. We....were singers, and we were young and naïve enough to believe that there was room for that in the world we live in. That that was a way to escape Five and go higher. And then, one day, she heard a rumor that there were auditions for a theater in Three, and...and she didn't tell me. To...lessen the competition.”

He laughs, partly because he can't believe he is still angry about that. “She didn't get in, in the end. I think that now she sings in a bar in Four. At least she got up one level, at the cost of our friendship.”

* * *

 

Blaine is quite sure he knows the girl Kurt is talking about. She sings in a bar in Four, that's right, but her bar is that meeting point for rebels he sees before him when he sings in his head. He can imagine her doing something like that to Kurt, once. But he knows she has atoned for it since, if not to Kurt: once a week, she gets cleaned up and shipped up to One like a whore to meet her secret fiancé whom she can't marry because he would be downgraded at least two levels, and they know they're more use to the rebellion with him up in One.

Of course, he doesn't say that to Kurt. He can protect them only by his silence. He can't forget that Kurt would have them arrested in the blink of an eye, even if he is far too glad that Kurt is back, the old Kurt, not the cold, professional drone of the last days.

Or part of the old Kurt, perhaps. He is more talkative than before, has never disclosed so much of himself and his past. Blaine tries to be wary: who knows what Kurt tries to achieve with this?

“But I didn't come here to talk about Rachel. I came here to tell you about my brother. But where to start?” Kurt asks, probably mostly himself. He puts his head in his hands, briefly, and then sits up straight. “There had been a mining accident. They happen often, because all the equipment is old and nobody takes enough care to properly secure the tunnels. Mining is hard, dangerous work, down in Five even more than usual, but it's also one of the very few sources of income they have there, so they do it anyway.”

Sometimes he stumbles, Blaine notices. Every time he says “they”, he pauses a little, and Blaine guesses he is about to say “we” and hastily corrects himself. It gives him hope. Somewhere, deep down inside this callous, hard man, there is still that desperate boy.

“So there was the accident,” Kurt continues. “A few people died, but Finn—my brother—he was lucky. His leg got crushed by a falling beam. He would have to lose the leg, but he'd live. We thought. But then the wound got infected, and there was...there was this red streak, and I knew...” He stops, takes a slow, halting breath. “I knew there was medicine for that, that he could be saved. And so I went—I took everything we had saved, and I went up. A lot of the money was spent on bribes and fees so they'd even let me reach One. Once I was there....you know the rest.”

Kurt is silent, and Blaine doesn't know what to say. Kurt looks small and lost, sitting on his chair and looking at nothing. Blaine wants—he wants to comfort him. Hug him. He can't, of course, but when Kurt turns to look at him, he meets his gaze and tries to say everything he can't say, do everything he can't do, with his eyes.

* * *

 

Damn. This was supposed to make Blaine emotional, not himself. He is over Finn's death, has accepted it as something, if not inevitable, then at least something that would never happen to him ever again. No one he loved would die in such a way again.

So why are there tears in his eyes? Why is he looking at Blaine like he is looking for comfort, like he wants to be taken into his arms and held? And Blaine—and this is somehow the worst thing—looks back like he would do it, like if Kurt made one move, he would let him cry against his chest and hold him while he was doing it.

The thought of Blaine's death comes back, sudden and inevitable. And it occurs to him that then, he would lose another person to a senseless, avoidable death, and this time it would be his fault. It's more than he can bear, and he finally starts crying, silently, interrupted by ragged breaths, a hand pressed on his mouth.

And then he feels Blaine's arms around him.


	5. Chapter 5

Before Blaine can even consider the fact that he has hugged Kurt, the man who has him jailed here, Kurt stands up and leaves.

Or so Blaine thinks. As he still sits there, trying to get his thoughts together, Kurt touches some sort of hidden panel in the wall. Another part of the wall higher up he hadn't even realized was different from the rest, slides open and reveals—a small section of sky.

He hasn't seen the sky for so long he just stands there and stares for long seconds, and when he finally turns around, Kurt is gone.

The window is high up and too small to climb through, so he can't use it to break out. But for a long while, he doesn't even ponder the possibility. Too caught up is he in the wonder of the sight. The sky is gray, clouds are traveling fast. It's windy. He has forgotten how wind feels.

He imagines children in the public park on level Three by the government buildings, built with nothing above it, flying kites. The rosy-cheeked, carefree ones from levels One and Two and maybe Three, that is. Not the gaunt ones with the eyes that are older than their years from Below. Those don't have kites, nor access to a public park with nothing above it but the sun and sky.

The thought sobers him. It reminds him why he is here, in this cell, what he has done so they felt the need to imprison him. And Kurt, no matter how....human he had seemed only a few moments ago, no matter the kindness with which he gave him the sky, is one of them. Of those who think only certain children deserve to fly a kite. Although, he has the feeling that Kurt doesn't really think anything like that. In fact, he seems to carefully avoid thinking at all about what he does.

Blaine stands on the bed so he can take a closer look out of the window. He can't see much of the ground—his cell is really high up—but when he cranes his head and looks in the right angle, he can, far down below, see the government building on Three. It was built, as a symbolic gesture, in the middle on level Three out of six, with nothing above it and nothing below. A nice thought that ignores, of course, that there are three levels below and only two above, and that it steals light and air from the levels below. Which is symbolic again, probably, in that the government steals rights and resources from the poor.

It's their next great plan. The Warblers' biggest coup up to now has been the blocking of the air filters for level Three and up, so that they, for once, would have to breathe the same, coal-dust polluted air the people in hell did. It was, as far as they could tell, very successful: it took them over a week to be repaired, and it raised awareness about the living conditions in the lower levels, which had been their main goal. But for all that, it had shown very little effect. It had disheartened a lot of them for some time, but ultimately, they had decided they needed something even bigger.

They don't want to hurt anyone. All they want is for people to be equal; it's not their wish to turn the tides and hurt others like they have been hurt. So, on a Friday night, after everyone has gone home, in a time of year it's too cold for people to linger in the park after dark, they're going to blow up the government building.

They're still in the preparation phase: the illegal dwellings down in Six have to be evacuated and secured so no one will be hurt when the building falls, explosives have to be gathered clandestinely in large amounts. But it's already fall: they'll have to do it soon if they don't want to wait a whole year.

Blaine has no illusions as to what will happen to him if he is still here by then. Which he probably will be, as his situation isn't close to changing. Although, maybe it is. Maybe Kurt is.

* * *

 

 Kurt is standing outside Blaine's room—his cell—for a long time. At first, he doesn't think about anything. It's too dangerous. But then, he can't help it anymore. As he slowly walks down the corridors towards his office with the little surveillance area for Blaine's cell, he wonders why he opened that window.

It takes him until he is in his office, sitting at his desk with the monitors connected to the cameras in Blaine's cell that he has long since turned off, to admit it. He's done it to make Blaine happy. And why did he want that? To thank him for the hug—that had been totally inappropriate and shouldn't have been necessary in the first place—but as difficult it is to admit that, it isn't even the whole truth.

The truth is: he has...feelings for Blaine. The exact nature of those feelings is not clear to him, but he knows they're there, have been there for a considerable time.

And this is...he can't even say. Bad. Love...any kind of attachment, really, except to his dad and by extension to Carole, was never in his plans. Not since....not for a long time. And then, of all people, Blaine?

There is nothing, nothing about this that is even remotely the way he thought it would be. Nothing about this fits with his plans. And that is why his only chance is to ignore it until it goes away. And try his best to get Blaine to talk as soon as possible, so he will be gone.

Gone, though, he reminds himself, will most likely mean dead. He has other deaths on his conscience, he is certain of that. He doesn't know how many, nor has he killed anyone himself. But if he goes on with this, is there really any difference? He might as well kill Blaine now, with his own hand. Spare him the pain of knowing he will have betrayed his friends. Spare himself the pain of having to order him tortured.

For a terrible, long moment, he seriously thinks of doing that.

But it wouldn't solve anything. He'd still be held accountable for not getting any information; something that, he is beginning to realize, he is never going to achieve.

He will fail. He will fail in fulfilling his order, in making his life and that of his dad better, in securing his position. He will fail and, ultimately, ruin everything he has worked so hard for, done so many things he despises himself for, because he had allowed feelings to come into it.

There is a choice he has to make now.

* * *

 

 It's funny, Blaine thinks, how surprised he is that when Kurt comes back the next day, he does what he would expect a gaoler to do. He is in his uniform again, and sits rigidly on his chair, firing one question after another. It's one of those days, Blaine thinks.

“Who are the other Warblers? Where are they? Who in the populace is sympathetic to their cause? What are they planning?” Kurt speaks fast; his voice sounds high and a little panicked. His behavior, overall, is weird: going from stern inquisitor to friendly confidant, to cold professional and back again in the course of a few days.

Blaine says nothing. It's easy to ignore the questions when he is so lost in his own thoughts. Kurt seems a strange person. Blaine knows, deep down, that he is gentle and compassionate, and yet he can act so cold. And yet he...he can knowingly support a system that he has personally experienced to be unjust and cruel. He doesn't even have the excuse to have grown up with it and not knowing any better.

Blaine should hate him.

And yet, he doesn't.

He looks up at Kurt's face. Kurt doesn't seem at ease at all, but his face is set and his jaw pushed forward. He is determined. But Blaine can be determined, too.

“Kurt,” he says, and Kurt looks up sharply. “You know these questions will lead nowhere. You know I won't answer.”

“There are things I could do,” Kurt says slowly. “People I could call. To make you talk.” Fear clenches in Blaine's gut, but he makes himself smile.

“I don't think you're going to do that. We've been going through this for weeks now. I think if you were going to, you'd have done it already.”

Kurt seems to deflate a little. He rises, and Blaine thinks he is about to leave, as is his custom when things get too difficult for him. But then, he shrugs and sits down again. “I don't think I'm going to, either,” he admits with a little smile. “So what are we going to do?”

“I have no idea,“Blaine says. He is relieved, even if he won't admit he even was afraid. “I'm just the prisoner, I'm not really supposed to make any decisions.”

That makes Kurt laugh, but then, to Blaine's dismay, from one moment to the next, he starts crying. At first Blaine doesn't do much but stare at him, but finally, he takes his chair and carries it beside Kurt's, sits down and takes Kurt's hands.

“What's the matter?” he asks, which seems stupid. Up to a point, he can imagine what Kurt may feel. But he'd like Kurt to open up to him again, and maybe, if they talk about it, together they can find a solution.

Hear him talk. Working together with Kurt, the man who imprisoned him, whose orders are to destroy the rebellion Blaine had given his life to. If anything, he should work against him in any way he can.

But Blaine knows they're way past that point. For good or bad, they are tied together. Slowly, inexplicable, their destinies have become entwined.

* * *

 

They could have two free passes up two One. That's also the whole number of their allies up in One, which is better than nothing, probably. A few others sympathize, but have not yet done anything to help them.

Two is too few. Wes has decided Burt needs an escort of at least three Warblers, so they have to take the slow route. It won't be easy, and it will take them at least several days. They will need bribes, and to pay for accommodations at night. As the Warblers are financed through donations by very poor people, money is low, and this will put a serious dent in their preparations for....Burt doesn't know what they plan. He loves the Warblers, and as is evidenced by what he is doing right now, he'd do a lot to support them. But he doesn't necessarily want to know what they're planning. It's better this way.

They're trudging up the stairs, looking to anyone like workers or small merchants trying to peddle their wares on the upper levels. Burt doesn't have his hands tied or anything to make him look like a prisoner, a hostage, yet. They're much more inconspicuous this way, and it's not like Burt is unwilling.

He's not exactly willing, either. Truth be told, he's scared. Not that he'll die. He shouldn't really be alive anymore. Kurt should have never done the things he did to get him that medicine. But that Kurt—that his son is so far gone that he'll let him die, this time. That in order to keep his position, his—whatever it is he does there, his privileges, he will forsake even the last of what makes him Burt's son.

Burt doesn't really mind the journey up to One will take him some time.


End file.
